She asked me how I could forget Diablo Cody in my fashion roll call. Indeed. However, Mom said it best. So in the words of Marilyn ... "Honey, you're not a stripper anymore!!!"
Yet Ms. Cody's ensemble still didn't horrify me as much as the fish lady, the androgynous lawyer, and the couple who looked like the twisted love children of Diane Keaton and Cher. All one of them needed was a pair of gloves.
(Yes, I said the twisted love children of two women. I couldn't come up with a man who would produce such a fright. Then again, didn't Daniel Day-Lewis wear a cape when he won for My Left Foot, as we saw numerous times last night? I kept mistaking that 1989/90 version of our latest Best Actor for Alan Rickman's Snape.)
P.S. Another number that made me cry out: Wesley Snipes in the purple pimp suit. I know Prince was hosting an Oscars after-party, so was Wesley trying to represent him at the ceremony?
Monday, February 25, 2008
The hangover: the show itself
Last night's Oscar show was three hours and 17 minutes long, done before midnight and shorter than previous years. Yet I nearly fell asleep multiple times, and my attention frequently wandered. Was this a result of the writers-strike-addled Oscars? The lack of popular nominees? The many pre-ordained winners? I think it could be any number of things.
Many commentators have said this morning that the clip packages obviously padded the show because of the strike. I have a different take on this: 1) It's the 80th anniversary of the Academy Awards, and the Oscars love an excuse for an anniversary celebration. 2) When don't the Oscars have annoying montages? At least this year's versions had a point! I didn't need Barbra Streisand talking about her win, but I liked seeing the previous 79 Best Picture recipients. (I'd seen 40, my mother 47. She has me beat with all the films from the 1960s.) Remember the year the Oscars decided to do an homage to patriotism? That was lame.
Although Daniel Day-Lewis' and Javier Bardem's wins were near-givens, the lack of an awards season meant that both of their speeches felt fresh. It was also the first time we got to see Helen Mirren and Day-Lewis interact - how fun it was to see him kneel before the Queen, and what plummy-sounding conversation they must have had afterward! While I detested La Vie en Rose and thought the lead performance a case of hammy overacting, I must admit that I enjoyed Marion Cotillard's reaction to winning Best Actress. She was filled with such infectious, overwhelmed joy. Even though English is not her first language, all of us could understand how delighted she was. Tilda Swinton, meanwhile, was an awesome surprise! Entertainment Weekly was the only place I'd seen that called her victory as Best Supporting Actress, but I thought its writers were nutty. I also liked her cheeky reference to George Clooney and his Batman and Robin days in her acceptance speech. I guess Swinton had to do as my "stand-up-and-cheer moment," because I think most hard-core Academy predictors were surprised No End in Sight did not win Best Documentary. Now, Taxi to the Dark Side is a very worthy winner - and it premiered and won at Tribeca, woo hoo! - but it's like a B+ version of No End in Sight.
Other pleasures included seeing The Bourne Ultimatum win all the awards for which it was nominated and hearing "Falling Slowly" live. (It's on my iPod, along with the rest of the Once soundtrack.) However, what were those stupid violins, and why did the camera pan to the orchestra at the end?? The duo from Once was a clear Kodak Theatre favorite, and we should have been able to see Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova. And I know I'm the only one, but I liked the Kristin Chenowith-helmed production number from Enchanted, "That's How You Know." On the other hand, ironically, the tune by Amy Adams - you know, Giselle herself - "Happy Working Song," was not a very happy or fun show. Was she even singing live? And why, oh why, did Atonement win Best Score?
As in 2006, Jon Stewart just didn't do it for me, and he didn't seem to be getting a lot out of the audience either. The political jokes seemed soft and derivative; Hillary Clinton calling Away from Her the feel-good movie of the year was a comment you'd hear on Leno or Letterman. Where Stewart isn't a movie person, and this year's flicks were hard to joke about, the monologue wasn't very Oscar-specific - so couldn't I have just gone to a comedy club, or watched The Daily Show? What Stewart did well I really liked: playing with the 11-year-old singer of "Raise It Up," showing how Cate Blanchett is everywhere, and bringing Irglova back on stage after the orchestra rudely cut her off before she could speak for winning Best Song.
Part of me wants to give Stewart a third shot, to see what he could do if he finally had months to prepare. (Of course, a possible Screen Actors Guild strike or, more importantly, the 2008 election would present a problem for 2009.) Then again, maybe the Academy needs to stop picking talk-show giants as their hosts and instead look to one of its own. I'm nominating the King of Hollywood, my friend Sandra's future husband, Time's cover boy: George Clooney.
Many commentators have said this morning that the clip packages obviously padded the show because of the strike. I have a different take on this: 1) It's the 80th anniversary of the Academy Awards, and the Oscars love an excuse for an anniversary celebration. 2) When don't the Oscars have annoying montages? At least this year's versions had a point! I didn't need Barbra Streisand talking about her win, but I liked seeing the previous 79 Best Picture recipients. (I'd seen 40, my mother 47. She has me beat with all the films from the 1960s.) Remember the year the Oscars decided to do an homage to patriotism? That was lame.
Although Daniel Day-Lewis' and Javier Bardem's wins were near-givens, the lack of an awards season meant that both of their speeches felt fresh. It was also the first time we got to see Helen Mirren and Day-Lewis interact - how fun it was to see him kneel before the Queen, and what plummy-sounding conversation they must have had afterward! While I detested La Vie en Rose and thought the lead performance a case of hammy overacting, I must admit that I enjoyed Marion Cotillard's reaction to winning Best Actress. She was filled with such infectious, overwhelmed joy. Even though English is not her first language, all of us could understand how delighted she was. Tilda Swinton, meanwhile, was an awesome surprise! Entertainment Weekly was the only place I'd seen that called her victory as Best Supporting Actress, but I thought its writers were nutty. I also liked her cheeky reference to George Clooney and his Batman and Robin days in her acceptance speech. I guess Swinton had to do as my "stand-up-and-cheer moment," because I think most hard-core Academy predictors were surprised No End in Sight did not win Best Documentary. Now, Taxi to the Dark Side is a very worthy winner - and it premiered and won at Tribeca, woo hoo! - but it's like a B+ version of No End in Sight.
Other pleasures included seeing The Bourne Ultimatum win all the awards for which it was nominated and hearing "Falling Slowly" live. (It's on my iPod, along with the rest of the Once soundtrack.) However, what were those stupid violins, and why did the camera pan to the orchestra at the end?? The duo from Once was a clear Kodak Theatre favorite, and we should have been able to see Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova. And I know I'm the only one, but I liked the Kristin Chenowith-helmed production number from Enchanted, "That's How You Know." On the other hand, ironically, the tune by Amy Adams - you know, Giselle herself - "Happy Working Song," was not a very happy or fun show. Was she even singing live? And why, oh why, did Atonement win Best Score?
As in 2006, Jon Stewart just didn't do it for me, and he didn't seem to be getting a lot out of the audience either. The political jokes seemed soft and derivative; Hillary Clinton calling Away from Her the feel-good movie of the year was a comment you'd hear on Leno or Letterman. Where Stewart isn't a movie person, and this year's flicks were hard to joke about, the monologue wasn't very Oscar-specific - so couldn't I have just gone to a comedy club, or watched The Daily Show? What Stewart did well I really liked: playing with the 11-year-old singer of "Raise It Up," showing how Cate Blanchett is everywhere, and bringing Irglova back on stage after the orchestra rudely cut her off before she could speak for winning Best Song.
Part of me wants to give Stewart a third shot, to see what he could do if he finally had months to prepare. (Of course, a possible Screen Actors Guild strike or, more importantly, the 2008 election would present a problem for 2009.) Then again, maybe the Academy needs to stop picking talk-show giants as their hosts and instead look to one of its own. I'm nominating the King of Hollywood, my friend Sandra's future husband, Time's cover boy: George Clooney.
The hangover: fashion
It's the day after the Oscars. I'm back at my house, having spent Sunday night in Boston with my parents, my sister-in-law, and her dog and cat. Thatcher and Aries had more interest in the goings-on than my father did; he played on the computer for several hours.
Well? I'm glad the season is over. I simply couldn't get excited. The fashion disappointed, too ... except that it had sartorial images about which I could be passionate about in a negative manner.
Let's start with the preshow. Someone needs to hire me. I'm smarter than Ryan Seacrest and Giuliana Rancic, I wouldn't use Botox like Lisa Rinna, and I wouldn't need as much makeup as Regis Philbin. Unlike Joan and Melissa, I know who people are. Sure, viewers at home wouldn't have as much to make fun of, but then again, there's always the clothes.
I saw more shades of red than I did in Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street. Ugh! Katherine Heigl must learn to break out of the "old Hollywood glamour" rut. (She also needs to go on a long vacation to Mars, but that's for another rant.) Helen Mirren's ruby was different, but then she had these hideous SWAROVSKI-ENCRUSTED SLEEVES. My favorite red was on the 83-year-old Ruby Dee. She described herself as a "tall, slim glass of Merlot." With a long-sleeved jacket and dress accented with a thin silver belt buckle, I couldn't agree more.
I'm hard-pressed to come up with a "best dressed." Some actresses came close. For example, Keri Russell looked so pretty and refreshing in a blush-colored gown that didn't wash her out thanks to an ornate necklace. However, the train was too long, and she had no idea how to walk in her dress. Anne Hathaway had lovely hair and makeup - I want her ponytail for my friend's wedding in August - but the rosettes on the breasts were just too much. Jessica Alba's plum and Cate Blanchett's midnight blue were stunning colors, but neither Mommy-to-Be's dress really did it for me. However, both were better than fellow maternity ward member Nicole Kidman, blah in black with way too many long, thin strands of something that resembled blinged-out silver tree branches.
I guess my favorite looks were from Amy Ryan, in a navy one-shoulder Grecian look (VERY Calvin Klein), and Laura Linney (simple black dress and blond hair, because she built the outfit around an eye-catching pendant necklace).
Too much hairspray: Hilary Swank and Heidi Klum. Too little hairspray: Jennifer Garner (Liz thought removing hair out of her face would have made the difference) and Cameron Diaz. In the words of my friend Susan from last year's Oscars, "Cameron, buy a brush." I'd also advise Cameron to get a better tailor, as I saw her adjust her bodice twice in the first 30 seconds, and my mother feared a wardrobe malfunction. What the heck happened to her hair???: Renee Zellweger (who couldn't walk in her dress, either).
Finally, we had the trifecta that I'll call Gills, Hefty, and the Circus. It seems Marion Cotillard took the mermaid thing literally. Sure, her dress was white, but it had scales! She looked like a fish! People, couture does not translate to the red carpet. Then there's Tilda Swinton. She said she's never even seen the Oscars on TV, but that's no excuse for showing up in something out of a Missy Elliott video from 10 years ago. Even George Clooney's Batman and Robin codpiece would have been better than that one-shoulder oversize garbage sack. Finally, we have the scariest-looking person of the night, Daniel Day-Lewis' wife. Every time I look at her, I see something else to terrify me: striped shoes, the plastic-looking buttons, the bows, the crushed velvet. Meanwhile, her husband the award winner is no better. I just realized he's wearing brown boots. I believe they are suede. They look like bedroom slippers.
To see pictures and vote, follow the link to USA Today:
http://www.usatoday.com/life/default.htm
Well? I'm glad the season is over. I simply couldn't get excited. The fashion disappointed, too ... except that it had sartorial images about which I could be passionate about in a negative manner.
Let's start with the preshow. Someone needs to hire me. I'm smarter than Ryan Seacrest and Giuliana Rancic, I wouldn't use Botox like Lisa Rinna, and I wouldn't need as much makeup as Regis Philbin. Unlike Joan and Melissa, I know who people are. Sure, viewers at home wouldn't have as much to make fun of, but then again, there's always the clothes.
I saw more shades of red than I did in Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street. Ugh! Katherine Heigl must learn to break out of the "old Hollywood glamour" rut. (She also needs to go on a long vacation to Mars, but that's for another rant.) Helen Mirren's ruby was different, but then she had these hideous SWAROVSKI-ENCRUSTED SLEEVES. My favorite red was on the 83-year-old Ruby Dee. She described herself as a "tall, slim glass of Merlot." With a long-sleeved jacket and dress accented with a thin silver belt buckle, I couldn't agree more.
I'm hard-pressed to come up with a "best dressed." Some actresses came close. For example, Keri Russell looked so pretty and refreshing in a blush-colored gown that didn't wash her out thanks to an ornate necklace. However, the train was too long, and she had no idea how to walk in her dress. Anne Hathaway had lovely hair and makeup - I want her ponytail for my friend's wedding in August - but the rosettes on the breasts were just too much. Jessica Alba's plum and Cate Blanchett's midnight blue were stunning colors, but neither Mommy-to-Be's dress really did it for me. However, both were better than fellow maternity ward member Nicole Kidman, blah in black with way too many long, thin strands of something that resembled blinged-out silver tree branches.
I guess my favorite looks were from Amy Ryan, in a navy one-shoulder Grecian look (VERY Calvin Klein), and Laura Linney (simple black dress and blond hair, because she built the outfit around an eye-catching pendant necklace).
Too much hairspray: Hilary Swank and Heidi Klum. Too little hairspray: Jennifer Garner (Liz thought removing hair out of her face would have made the difference) and Cameron Diaz. In the words of my friend Susan from last year's Oscars, "Cameron, buy a brush." I'd also advise Cameron to get a better tailor, as I saw her adjust her bodice twice in the first 30 seconds, and my mother feared a wardrobe malfunction. What the heck happened to her hair???: Renee Zellweger (who couldn't walk in her dress, either).
Finally, we had the trifecta that I'll call Gills, Hefty, and the Circus. It seems Marion Cotillard took the mermaid thing literally. Sure, her dress was white, but it had scales! She looked like a fish! People, couture does not translate to the red carpet. Then there's Tilda Swinton. She said she's never even seen the Oscars on TV, but that's no excuse for showing up in something out of a Missy Elliott video from 10 years ago. Even George Clooney's Batman and Robin codpiece would have been better than that one-shoulder oversize garbage sack. Finally, we have the scariest-looking person of the night, Daniel Day-Lewis' wife. Every time I look at her, I see something else to terrify me: striped shoes, the plastic-looking buttons, the bows, the crushed velvet. Meanwhile, her husband the award winner is no better. I just realized he's wearing brown boots. I believe they are suede. They look like bedroom slippers.
To see pictures and vote, follow the link to USA Today:
http://www.usatoday.com/life/default.htm
Saturday, February 23, 2008
School's in session, and the doctor is in
I support movies that ran at the Tribeca Film Festival, and Charlie Bartlett was a 2007 selection. My boss really liked it, which was enough of a recommendation for me.
If not for cellphones, Charlie Bartlett would appear to be the latest addition to the John Hughes oeuvre; the titular character (Anton Yelchin) in director Jon Poll’s comedy even sounds like Ferris Bueller. Instead, Bartlett comes across as a Wes Anderson side project about the Royal Tenenbaums’ Connecticut cousins.
Gustin Nash’s story of a wildly popular student therapist/prescription-drug dispenser has its funny and satirical moments, particularly as Charlie and bully Murphy (Tyler Hilton) form their partnership, before growing too soft a heart. Hope Davis’ performance as Charlie’s off-kilter mother – her duet with Yelchin on “Those Were the Days” is grown-up stoner humor – provides many laughs, but watching recovering addict Robert Downey Jr. wallow in the bottle as Charlie's principal and nemesis results in more discomfort than amusement.
Still, Bartlett has enough laugh-out-loud parts and engaging acting – Kat Dennings as the principal’s daughter is especially winning – to receive a passing grade.
If not for cellphones, Charlie Bartlett would appear to be the latest addition to the John Hughes oeuvre; the titular character (Anton Yelchin) in director Jon Poll’s comedy even sounds like Ferris Bueller. Instead, Bartlett comes across as a Wes Anderson side project about the Royal Tenenbaums’ Connecticut cousins.
Gustin Nash’s story of a wildly popular student therapist/prescription-drug dispenser has its funny and satirical moments, particularly as Charlie and bully Murphy (Tyler Hilton) form their partnership, before growing too soft a heart. Hope Davis’ performance as Charlie’s off-kilter mother – her duet with Yelchin on “Those Were the Days” is grown-up stoner humor – provides many laughs, but watching recovering addict Robert Downey Jr. wallow in the bottle as Charlie's principal and nemesis results in more discomfort than amusement.
Still, Bartlett has enough laugh-out-loud parts and engaging acting – Kat Dennings as the principal’s daughter is especially winning – to receive a passing grade.
My New Year's Eve
It's the night before the Oscars. The strike has been settled, so there will be awards. Jon Stewart, whom I enjoyed two years ago, is back as host. So why am I not more excited?
As I've grumbled about before, the excessive amount of guilds and critics circles eliminate almost all suspense when it comes to winners. As I said to my mother this afternoon, "You can take a nap during Best Actor and Supporting Actor." I mean really, is there anything Daniel Day-Lewis and Javier Bardem haven't won? They're probably award winners on Pluto - that is, if Pluto didn't suspend its ceremonies when its planetary status was stripped last year. (Bardem is more than deserving in my book; I'm a lot more ambivalent about Day-Lewis and There Will Be Blood, about which I'm STILL not motivated to write a review five weeks after seeing it.)
I think my other problem is that I'm simply not as passionate about the 2007 selections as I was about anything on 2006 10 Best list. A year after that ceremony, I still think about the regal Helen Mirren, "Shipping up to Boston" - OK, maybe because it's on my iPod - Penelope Cruz' warmth in Volver ... and, conversely, how much I hated Babel. (Was it wrong of me to wish Brad Pitt and Cate Blanchett's whiny children dead?) Almost nothing from 2007 inspires that kind of emotion in me, good or bad. I respect more than love the latest crop of flicks. I want to gush for weeks about something again and nag everyone I know to see a particular movie. I can't remember the last time I did that.
Our Oscar party this year is more muted, too. My father is doing great in his recovery from throat cancer, but I'm not sure raw veggies will go down well. I'm recuperating from my third stomach virus of the winter. My brother moved to New York on Wednesday, and he can't come back to Boston yet. My parents and sister-in-law have seen very little they can discuss.
Hopefully the fashion won't disappoint. I need something to gab about Monday!
P.S. My choices from Jan. 22 and Feb. 16 still hold. In summary: No Country for Old Men, the Coen brothers, Mortensen, Christie (I've now seen The Savages, though; Laura Linney was her awesome self), Bardem (I've also seen The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford; I ended up doing my laundry), Swinton, Lars and the Real Girl, abstention from adapted screenplay.
As I've grumbled about before, the excessive amount of guilds and critics circles eliminate almost all suspense when it comes to winners. As I said to my mother this afternoon, "You can take a nap during Best Actor and Supporting Actor." I mean really, is there anything Daniel Day-Lewis and Javier Bardem haven't won? They're probably award winners on Pluto - that is, if Pluto didn't suspend its ceremonies when its planetary status was stripped last year. (Bardem is more than deserving in my book; I'm a lot more ambivalent about Day-Lewis and There Will Be Blood, about which I'm STILL not motivated to write a review five weeks after seeing it.)
I think my other problem is that I'm simply not as passionate about the 2007 selections as I was about anything on 2006 10 Best list. A year after that ceremony, I still think about the regal Helen Mirren, "Shipping up to Boston" - OK, maybe because it's on my iPod - Penelope Cruz' warmth in Volver ... and, conversely, how much I hated Babel. (Was it wrong of me to wish Brad Pitt and Cate Blanchett's whiny children dead?) Almost nothing from 2007 inspires that kind of emotion in me, good or bad. I respect more than love the latest crop of flicks. I want to gush for weeks about something again and nag everyone I know to see a particular movie. I can't remember the last time I did that.
Our Oscar party this year is more muted, too. My father is doing great in his recovery from throat cancer, but I'm not sure raw veggies will go down well. I'm recuperating from my third stomach virus of the winter. My brother moved to New York on Wednesday, and he can't come back to Boston yet. My parents and sister-in-law have seen very little they can discuss.
Hopefully the fashion won't disappoint. I need something to gab about Monday!
P.S. My choices from Jan. 22 and Feb. 16 still hold. In summary: No Country for Old Men, the Coen brothers, Mortensen, Christie (I've now seen The Savages, though; Laura Linney was her awesome self), Bardem (I've also seen The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford; I ended up doing my laundry), Swinton, Lars and the Real Girl, abstention from adapted screenplay.
Seeing the world through ...
Being a journalist and something of a drama queen, but lacking an artistic streak, I tend to focus more on screenplay and performance than direction when it comes to evaluating films. However, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly spoke to me first and foremost on a visual level. What a surprise.
“I look like I came out of a vat of formaldehyde.”
So “says” the vinegary French Elle editor Jean-Dominique Bauby (Mathieu Amalric) during director Julian Schnabel’s visually arresting The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. While driving, the 41-year-old Bauby suffered a massive stroke and ended up a victim of “locked-in syndrome:” He’s almost completely paralyzed, but his brain operates normally. To communicate, he must learn to use his one functional body part: his left eyelid.
With uncomfortable depictions of Bauby’s paralysis, Schnabel, also an artist, mostly overcomes the inevitable sappy arc of such triumph-over-adversity storylines. (Ronald Harwood, of The Pianist, handled the adaptation of Bauby’s affecting memoir.) Diving Bell’s initial moments, shot by cinematographer Janusz Kaminski, are from a patient’s point of view: eyes blinking, screen cloudy, body trapped. We’re in this same state during the particularly harrowing sequence when doctors sew Bauby’s right eye shut. Schnabel then pans out to the crude, black stitches.
Bauby feels as if “my whole body is encased in a diving suit,” a sensation Schnabel emphasizes with repeated images of being at the bottom of the sea, complete with muffled sound. It’s an especially jarring contrast to the many beautiful women surrounding Bauby, their long, loose hair sensual and free in the wind. Meanwhile, Bauby can only sit, immobile.
With Diving Bell, Schnabel has created a tribute to the senses and our consciousness. The following is a cliché, but an appropriate one: The Diving Bell and the Butterfly will make you feel alive.
“I look like I came out of a vat of formaldehyde.”
So “says” the vinegary French Elle editor Jean-Dominique Bauby (Mathieu Amalric) during director Julian Schnabel’s visually arresting The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. While driving, the 41-year-old Bauby suffered a massive stroke and ended up a victim of “locked-in syndrome:” He’s almost completely paralyzed, but his brain operates normally. To communicate, he must learn to use his one functional body part: his left eyelid.
With uncomfortable depictions of Bauby’s paralysis, Schnabel, also an artist, mostly overcomes the inevitable sappy arc of such triumph-over-adversity storylines. (Ronald Harwood, of The Pianist, handled the adaptation of Bauby’s affecting memoir.) Diving Bell’s initial moments, shot by cinematographer Janusz Kaminski, are from a patient’s point of view: eyes blinking, screen cloudy, body trapped. We’re in this same state during the particularly harrowing sequence when doctors sew Bauby’s right eye shut. Schnabel then pans out to the crude, black stitches.
Bauby feels as if “my whole body is encased in a diving suit,” a sensation Schnabel emphasizes with repeated images of being at the bottom of the sea, complete with muffled sound. It’s an especially jarring contrast to the many beautiful women surrounding Bauby, their long, loose hair sensual and free in the wind. Meanwhile, Bauby can only sit, immobile.
With Diving Bell, Schnabel has created a tribute to the senses and our consciousness. The following is a cliché, but an appropriate one: The Diving Bell and the Butterfly will make you feel alive.
Monday, February 18, 2008
This one's for Brooklyn Jen
My boyfriend asked me last night whether I planned to review Step Up 2 the Streets. (By the way, I don't think he understands my love of dance flicks or my need to see them in an interactive audience.) I told him I didn't review everything I saw, that sometimes I went to movies just for fun. He still thought I should write about it, even though I didn't take any notes. Well, OK. ...
Teen me: OMG! You must see Step Up 2 the Streets! The dancing! I downloaded the soundtrack!
Critic me: The dancing and music are cool, but could we ditch the plot and dialogue? How many times must we see a troubled teen (Briana Evigan) sent for a “last chance” to a seemingly snooty place (Maryland School of the Arts, the main link to the first Step Up)?
Teen me: Oh, hush! Isn’t it great to see a color-blind movie? When Andie (Evigan) gets kicked out of her crew and the cute boy (Robert Hoffman) convinces her to form a new one, it’s not just white people; it also has Asians, blacks and Hispanics. It’s a Barack Obama world!
Critic me: The racial subtext bothered me. Andie’s original crew is mostly black, and the leader (Black Thomas) comes across as a menacing thug. When he and two of his buddies attack Chase (Harrison) … had the races been reversed, Al Sharpton would call for boycotts.
Teen me: But Step Up 2 brings people together - like The Streets, like Andie says …
Critic me: In by far the corniest speech of the film …
Teen me: Whatever. Who was in your audience?
Critic me: Actually, it was a rather mixed group in terms of age and race. And they were pretty into it.
Teen me: Uh-huh. See?
Critic me: Yeah. Those dance sequences were great, albeit increasingly preposterous. The subway? The rain??? My favorite was the simpler salsa party.
Teen me: But wasn’t it great to really see the routines? We knew the actors were doing the dancing.
Critic me: True. Step Up 2 didn’t look completely like an MTV video.
Teen me: I caught you grooving in your seat once or twice. …
Critic me: OK, I admit it: I went home and downloaded some of the songs! I guess that in spite of myself, I liked Step Up 2. Gaah!
Teen me: OMG! You must see Step Up 2 the Streets! The dancing! I downloaded the soundtrack!
Critic me: The dancing and music are cool, but could we ditch the plot and dialogue? How many times must we see a troubled teen (Briana Evigan) sent for a “last chance” to a seemingly snooty place (Maryland School of the Arts, the main link to the first Step Up)?
Teen me: Oh, hush! Isn’t it great to see a color-blind movie? When Andie (Evigan) gets kicked out of her crew and the cute boy (Robert Hoffman) convinces her to form a new one, it’s not just white people; it also has Asians, blacks and Hispanics. It’s a Barack Obama world!
Critic me: The racial subtext bothered me. Andie’s original crew is mostly black, and the leader (Black Thomas) comes across as a menacing thug. When he and two of his buddies attack Chase (Harrison) … had the races been reversed, Al Sharpton would call for boycotts.
Teen me: But Step Up 2 brings people together - like The Streets, like Andie says …
Critic me: In by far the corniest speech of the film …
Teen me: Whatever. Who was in your audience?
Critic me: Actually, it was a rather mixed group in terms of age and race. And they were pretty into it.
Teen me: Uh-huh. See?
Critic me: Yeah. Those dance sequences were great, albeit increasingly preposterous. The subway? The rain??? My favorite was the simpler salsa party.
Teen me: But wasn’t it great to really see the routines? We knew the actors were doing the dancing.
Critic me: True. Step Up 2 didn’t look completely like an MTV video.
Teen me: I caught you grooving in your seat once or twice. …
Critic me: OK, I admit it: I went home and downloaded some of the songs! I guess that in spite of myself, I liked Step Up 2. Gaah!
Confessions
This was supposed to be the intro for my next review. It turned into its own entry.
The summer I was 11, my house met HBO. One night, my baby-sitter introduced me to the wonders of the channel … and my guiltiest pleasure ever, Girls Just Want to Have Fun. I watched this pre-stardom Sarah Jessica Parker and Helen Hunt dance flick, on average, once a week for months. I created a “picnic” in the den for my sixth viewing. I made my mother judge the dance routines and was offended when she didn’t think Janie (Parker) was the best. (“Too much gymnastics,” she said. Hmmph!) I held the tape recorder by the TV to record the songs and created routines to them. Yes, I was obsessed.
More than 15 years later, I made my Little Sister, then 12, indulge in the joys of Girls Just Want to Have Fun with two of her “aunts.” The three adults enjoyed it even more than she did. I am only somewhat embarrassed to admit that I’ve seen this movie more than any other and that, at 31, I still watch it once a year.
Perhaps my weakness for Girls Just Want to Have Fun explains my love of teen dance dramas. Save the Last Dance, Take the Lead, Stomp the Yard … I’ve seen them all, in a theater no less. Fortunately, my friend Brooklyn Jen has an even greater appreciation for them, so she was more than game to see the latest entry in the genre, Step Up 2 the Streets.
Oh, that review? See the upcoming post.
The summer I was 11, my house met HBO. One night, my baby-sitter introduced me to the wonders of the channel … and my guiltiest pleasure ever, Girls Just Want to Have Fun. I watched this pre-stardom Sarah Jessica Parker and Helen Hunt dance flick, on average, once a week for months. I created a “picnic” in the den for my sixth viewing. I made my mother judge the dance routines and was offended when she didn’t think Janie (Parker) was the best. (“Too much gymnastics,” she said. Hmmph!) I held the tape recorder by the TV to record the songs and created routines to them. Yes, I was obsessed.
More than 15 years later, I made my Little Sister, then 12, indulge in the joys of Girls Just Want to Have Fun with two of her “aunts.” The three adults enjoyed it even more than she did. I am only somewhat embarrassed to admit that I’ve seen this movie more than any other and that, at 31, I still watch it once a year.
Perhaps my weakness for Girls Just Want to Have Fun explains my love of teen dance dramas. Save the Last Dance, Take the Lead, Stomp the Yard … I’ve seen them all, in a theater no less. Fortunately, my friend Brooklyn Jen has an even greater appreciation for them, so she was more than game to see the latest entry in the genre, Step Up 2 the Streets.
Oh, that review? See the upcoming post.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Tilda Swinton for Supporting Actress
When I wrote my Oscar-nomination entry, I said I couldn't decide between Tilda Swinton and Saoirse Ronan for Supporting Actress. I don't know what I was thinking - after a second Michael Clayton viewing, it's so clearly Swinton.
Michael Clayton is a complicated man, and Michael Clayton is a complex movie. Tony Gilroy, the writer of the Bourne flicks, handles writing and directing duties on this George Clooney showcase, a brilliantly acted, entertaining but convoluted legal thriller with a conscience.
Clayton (Clooney) acts as a “fixer” for prestigious New York law firm Kenner Bach & Ledeen. He’s been called a miracle worker, a person who makes problems go away, and now the firm would like him to help with one of their own. It seems chief defense attorney - and manic-depressive - Arthur Edens (Tom Wilkinson) has suffered a breakdown while taking a deposition in a multibillion-dollar lawsuit for U/North (think Monsanto), and now Arthur may be working against his client. As Clayton tries to help Arthur and the firm, he discovers his friend perhaps may be on to something.
Michael Clayton epitomizes a master class in acting. Clooney, normally so charming, is a picture of weariness here. Clayton considers himself more a “janitor” than a “fixer;” he struggles with an alcoholic brother, a gambling addiction, spiraling debt, and his responsibility as a divorced dad - not to mention Arthur’s sanity and everyone’s ethics. Even in rare moments when Clayton should be buoyant, Clooney looks troubled and tired.
Clooney’s is an internal performance, unlike that of Wilkinson, who balances his explosive rants without becoming Al Pacino in The Devil’s Advocate (another Gilroy script about wild NYC lawyers). Wilkinson recites several monologues, none more delicious than a message for Kenner Bach detailing U/North’s nefariousness. Despite Arthur’s mania, Wilkinson delivers his lines crisply and devastatingly.
Tilda Swinton’s Karen literally rehearses to play chief legal counsel in the anonymous, cutthroat world of U/North. Swinton sweats (the stains are a nice touch), her voice skipping breaths as she tries to keep control … but Karen still remembers to hold that stolen folder with a plastic bag so she doesn’t leave fingerprints.
Gilroy succeeds more as a director than a writer - odd, considering that Michael Clayton represents his directorial debut, while the storyline shares more than a few similarities with the Bourne trilogy (decidedly “gray” hero, dark conglomerate). In addition to helping his actors find emotion, Gilroy effectively makes New York look cold and corporate with images of steel buildings and unfriendly cobblestone. Gilroy’s final shot lasts for nearly two wordless minutes, and it’s haunting.
However, Michael Clayton sometimes suffers as a result of Gilroy’s busy screenplay. The titular character has so many issues, and the family angle in particular suffers. We hear only a brief reference to the alcoholic brother in the first hour; then in the second hour, he and another, previously unmentioned brother play important roles. Gilroy also unnecessarily complicates the film with its early jumbled structure before settling into straight-ahead flashback.
Thanks to Wilkinson, Swinton and especially Clooney, Michael Clayton overcomes its organizational woes to become a lesson in skilled moviemaking. Forget cheap horror films and John Grisham - Michael Clayton is the true exercise in legal suspense.
Michael Clayton is a complicated man, and Michael Clayton is a complex movie. Tony Gilroy, the writer of the Bourne flicks, handles writing and directing duties on this George Clooney showcase, a brilliantly acted, entertaining but convoluted legal thriller with a conscience.
Clayton (Clooney) acts as a “fixer” for prestigious New York law firm Kenner Bach & Ledeen. He’s been called a miracle worker, a person who makes problems go away, and now the firm would like him to help with one of their own. It seems chief defense attorney - and manic-depressive - Arthur Edens (Tom Wilkinson) has suffered a breakdown while taking a deposition in a multibillion-dollar lawsuit for U/North (think Monsanto), and now Arthur may be working against his client. As Clayton tries to help Arthur and the firm, he discovers his friend perhaps may be on to something.
Michael Clayton epitomizes a master class in acting. Clooney, normally so charming, is a picture of weariness here. Clayton considers himself more a “janitor” than a “fixer;” he struggles with an alcoholic brother, a gambling addiction, spiraling debt, and his responsibility as a divorced dad - not to mention Arthur’s sanity and everyone’s ethics. Even in rare moments when Clayton should be buoyant, Clooney looks troubled and tired.
Clooney’s is an internal performance, unlike that of Wilkinson, who balances his explosive rants without becoming Al Pacino in The Devil’s Advocate (another Gilroy script about wild NYC lawyers). Wilkinson recites several monologues, none more delicious than a message for Kenner Bach detailing U/North’s nefariousness. Despite Arthur’s mania, Wilkinson delivers his lines crisply and devastatingly.
Tilda Swinton’s Karen literally rehearses to play chief legal counsel in the anonymous, cutthroat world of U/North. Swinton sweats (the stains are a nice touch), her voice skipping breaths as she tries to keep control … but Karen still remembers to hold that stolen folder with a plastic bag so she doesn’t leave fingerprints.
Gilroy succeeds more as a director than a writer - odd, considering that Michael Clayton represents his directorial debut, while the storyline shares more than a few similarities with the Bourne trilogy (decidedly “gray” hero, dark conglomerate). In addition to helping his actors find emotion, Gilroy effectively makes New York look cold and corporate with images of steel buildings and unfriendly cobblestone. Gilroy’s final shot lasts for nearly two wordless minutes, and it’s haunting.
However, Michael Clayton sometimes suffers as a result of Gilroy’s busy screenplay. The titular character has so many issues, and the family angle in particular suffers. We hear only a brief reference to the alcoholic brother in the first hour; then in the second hour, he and another, previously unmentioned brother play important roles. Gilroy also unnecessarily complicates the film with its early jumbled structure before settling into straight-ahead flashback.
Thanks to Wilkinson, Swinton and especially Clooney, Michael Clayton overcomes its organizational woes to become a lesson in skilled moviemaking. Forget cheap horror films and John Grisham - Michael Clayton is the true exercise in legal suspense.
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